I’ve thought about how to start this, but nothing feels correct. I could go back to when my husband and I met, fell in love, got married, and had our three babies. I could begin with the “before,” when everything looked flawless.
But I don’t be there anymore. I exist somewhere between a past I can’t settled and a future I don’t want to face.
So, I’ll start at the end. Our daughter, Darby, was born on November 19th, 2021, and our world suddenly felt filled, deep, and healthy.
Our world felt full, warm, and happy. She loved being held by her older siblings, and they loved holding her. Life was perfect.
And then, on November 25th, Thanksgiving, she died. In my husband’s arms, while I kissed her forehead, surrounded by crying doctors and nurses.
I still wake up expecting it to be a nightmare, waiting for the ending to shift. Waiting for the moment when she’s still safe, when we’re home, when she’s resting peacefully beside me. But she isn’t.
We don’t fully know why she died. The doctors think it may have been a rare metabolic disorder called Crigler Najjar. I read everything I could find after she died, frantic answers, trying to fix something that couldn’t be fixed. Even with clarification, there are endless “what ifs” that bother me, questions about what could have been different, how I could have kept her here.
The pain is impossible to describe. I live in the “before,” remembering the days of deep heaven, before everything came crashing down. Before I started blaming myself. Before I felt like I failed her. The doctors say, “You did everything right. There was nothing you could do.” But I am her mom. I was supposed to protect her. And I couldn’t.
Parenting my other children while carrying this grief is unbearable. They are my life raft, keeping me inundated, yet I feel like I’m drowning trying to keep them safe from the weight of this pain. They suffer too, they know their sister is gone and that the mother they knew has been shattered. Nights are long, filled with tears, both theirs and mine.
We include Darby in everything. She’s part of our celebrations, our little moments, and our everyday life. We light candles, float lamps, and bury notes for her under trees. Her memory is present in every room, every smile, every laugh.
Her love keeps me going. I hold onto one truth: each night that passes is one night closer to holding her again. The pain is temporary; life isn’t. I cling to the moments of joy and love, the tiny sparks of light that exist even in this darkness.
I see her everywhere in sunsets, in butterflies, in quiet moments, in stars. Not a second goes by that I don’t think of her. I miss her. I miss her in every space, in every pause between breaths.
Darby, you are loved. You were real. You mattered. You changed the world by being here, if only for a short time. Thank you for giving me the gift of being your mom.
I will love you forever, always.
And to those reading this, thank you for giving space to my grieving heart. Even though Darby’s time here was short, her spirit has touched more hearts than I can count. If you can, I hope you do a random act of sympathy in her honor. May her love and joy carry on through the simple acts of kindness shared in the world. Daisies will forever be for Darby.
